“You’re just depressed ’cause Max is dead, Papa. Look, Bodine and Sam and the Ranger can’t stay here forever. They’re drifters. We just lie low for a time and they’ll move on. We’ll rebuild our crew and in a month or six months or a year, we’ll hit that damn town so hard they’ll not know what happened to them. Then it’ll be right back the way it was ’fore all these outsiders come in to screw it all up.”
“It’ll never be the way it was, boy,” John Lee told his son. “Get that notion out of your head. I’m under a death sentence put on me by Vonny Dodge. I’m on the downswing of life, boy. You’ve got years ahead of you. You’ve got to live, you and Cindy and the child. Cindy can’t stand no long trail drive, but she could be taken to Fort Worth and looked after there. You go with her. You’re not in good enough health to help me in what I got to do. I’ll arrange for drovers to move the herd, and then when you and Cindy are able, you come on following. You and me, we’ll plan tonight where we start over. I’ve had my say, boy. That’s the way it’s going to be. Now leave me for a time.”
After his son had gone back into the house, John Lee warmed his coffee and set about cleaning his guns. No man talked to him the way Vonny Dodge talked to him that day and lived. When all the plans were firm, and the drovers moving the herd, and the boy and Cindy were in the buggy and gone, John Lee would gather his fighting men and seek his revenge. That was the way it had to be. Vonny Dodge had thrown down the challenge, and John Lee had to pick it up. That was the code.
John Lee called for one of his few working hands to come to him. “Ride for the settlement, Booker. Start passing the word that I want drovers. We’re moving the herd. Get them back here as soon as possible.”
“Right, boss. I’m gone.”
John Lee’s eyes were bleak as he stared out over his land. “A week, Vonny. Ten days, maybe. Then one of us is dead.”
“Stage driver just told me that John Lee’s hirin’ drovers,” Pen said, sitting down at the table in the saloon.
“Drovers or gunhands?” Josiah asked, his wounded leg propped up on a chair.
“Cowboys,” Pen said. “John Lee’s gonna move the herd. Cindy’s done pulled out for Fort Worth in a fancy buggy, and Nick is supposed to follow her pretty quick.”
“That stage driver was full of information, wasn’t he?” Sam smiled.
Bam stepped out of the saddle in front of the saloon and knocked the dust from his clothing before stepping up on the boardwalk and entering the saloon. He’d been out chasing a horse thief for the better part of two days. He ordered a beer and sat down wearily.
“You catch him?” Pen asked.
Bam nodded his head. “I caught him. He pulled iron. I shot him. Planted him this mornin’.” He took a long swig of beer. “Lots of news out on the trail. John Lee’s movin’ his herd to Montana, by way of Kansas. He’s plannin’ to sell most of his beeves to the Army and take the best north for breedin’ stock. He’s gonna start the herd in a couple of days.”
“I can’t believe he’s giving up,” Josiah said.
“He ain’t,” Bam said, after draining his mug and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I run into Rodgers on the trail. He left the Broken Lance. Said John Lee seemed like he was gonna pull something wild. He doesn’t know what, but said some of the boys is talkin’ about hitting the town and lootin’ it and then settin’ it on fire. And John Lee is all the time talkin’ about killin’ Vonny Dodge.”
“John’s good with a gun,” Pen said. “Don’t sell him short on that. I don’t know whether he’s as good as Vonny—I doubt it—but the man is no coward.”
“Nick won’t last in Montana,” Matt said. “He’ll be dead within six months. It takes some doing to live up there.”
“I agree,” Sam said. “If the weather doesn’t kill him, some cowboy will. And it’s my opinion that Cindy will never leave Fort Worth. She isn’t cut out for homesteading in Montana.” He looked at Bam. “You think Jeff Sparks and Vonny know about this move?”
“Oh, yeah. Rodgers told me that Circle S and Flyin’ V punchers are watchin’ ever’ move the Broken Lance boys make. John Lee’s still got about thirty or thirty-five randy ol’ boys with him. They could hurt this town for a fact. They’ll not tree it, but they could do enough damage so’s it might not recover from it. We got to think about that.”
“And stay close,” Josiah said.
“Yeah.” He looked up at the sounds of hooves striking the sun-baked earth of the street. “Here comes Jeff and some of his crew now.”
The owner of the Circle S pulled a table close to the men and he and Vonny and Gene sat down, ordering beer. The other hands with him went to the bar. “You men heard the news about John Lee?”
“That’s what we were just talking about,” Matt said. “What do you make of it?”
The rancher sipped his beer and looked thoughtful for a moment. “I think that John Lee has sent his stupid kid and equally stupid wife out of harm’s way. I think he is going to throw the dice for the jackpot or bust.”
“A suicide raid?” Sam asked.
“Exactly.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” Josiah said. “But now that you brung it up, you just may be right.”
“He’s gone around the bend,” Vonny said. “And I think he knows it. I believe that durin’ any right-thinkin’ time he might have, he knows he’s slap-dab crazy, and he’s chosen this way to go out rather than be placed in some institution for the feebleminded.”
“Then he’s doubly dangerous,” Matt said. “You can usually predict what a normal person will do. There is no way of telling what a crazy man might do.”
“Especially one who is on a suicide mission,” his brother added.
“So what do we do?” Pen asked.
“Wait,” Josiah said. “There’s ain’t nothin’ else we can do, ’ceptin’ warn the townspeople to get ready.”
The town made ready without being obvious about it. Every water barrel that could be found was filled, and buckets and pails were stashed closeby in the event of fire. The manager of the general store sold out of .44’s and .45’s and had to reorder. But everyone knew by the time the reordered ammo arrived, their fates would have been long settled.
Men were assigned positions from which to fire. Women knew where to go with their kids from any part of town. Anyone handy with a hammer and saw was busy building thick shutters with gun slits to close and cover their windows in the hope that while the walls sure wouldn’t stop a bullet, the shutters might.
One bright hot morning, one of Noah’s hands came fogging into town and jumped down in front of the marshal’s office. “The drovers have started the Broken Lance herd north,” he panted, wiping the sweat from his face with a bandana. He used his hat to knock the dust from his clothing. “One of Jeff Sparks’s spies he sent down to the settlement come back last night sayin’ that John Lee’s men done bought ever’ box of bullets in town.”
“Nick Lee?” Matt asked.
“Gone. Pulled out yesterday in a buggy. I think we done seen the last of that squirt.”
“Don’t bet on it,” Josiah said. “He’s just as crazy as his old man. And when he learns of his old man’s death—and John Lee is gonna die, and soon—Nick’ll be back with murder in his eyes.”
“I tend to agree with you, Josiah,” Sam said, noticing the badge was once more pinned to Josiah’s shirt.
“Thank you,” the Ranger said with a smile. “I asked to come off leave, since it’s all up to John Lee now. I’ll be sure to arrest any survivors of the raid.”
“Here’s the plan from our end of it,” the young Flying V hand said, and laid it out.
Almost everyone was sure that John Lee and his men were coming hellbent for the town to loot it and destroy what was left. But the ranchers had to also plan on the unexpected, that being that John Lee and his raiders just might attack their ranches first. Noah only had a few hands, and he could not risk sending any of them in to help the town.
Jeff was keeping ten at the ranch and sending the rest into town. Those were Chookie, Barlow, Gilley, Parnell, and Beavers. They rode in late that same afternoon the Flying V hand delivered the message and the plan.
Vonny had already ridden in alone. The old gunfighter had tied his guns down and had a rifle in his hand and a bandoleer of ammunition slung across his chest. He pretty much stayed to himself, restlessly pacing the boardwalk, stopping occasionally to build a smoke.
He finally settled down and came into the marshal’s office and took a seat. “When do you figure they’ll hit us?” he asked Matt.
“Just before dawn. They’ll make us sweat—or so they think. They’ll think we’ll be all tired and grainy-eyed from being up and tense all night. At least that’s my thinking on it.”
“I agree with it,” Josiah said. “And I think it’ll come in the morning. I get the impression that John Lee is not a very patient man. We’ll take turns watchin’ from the rooftops this night, and an hour before dawn, we’ll roust everybody out of bed and be ready to meet the attack.”
“How’s your leg?” Vonny asked.
“It pains me some. But I can gimp around on it.” He grinned. “I’ll be right in the middle of it, boys. Don’t none of you fret about that.”
The town shut down early that night. By the time the sun had vanished over the horizon and the evening’s shadows began cooling the land, most of the townspeople had eaten their supper and turned out the lamps.
The men would stand two-hour watches through the night, thus insuring that everyone would get enough rest while still maintaining a tight vigil over the town.
Doc Winters had laid out the tools of his trade before looking in on the few patients he still kept on cots in the back room of his office. He didn’t think any of the gunmen left were going to make it much longer, and he, quite unprofessionally on his part, didn’t really give a damn whether they lived or not. If peace was ever going to come to the frontier, men like these would have to be accounted for. And if accounted for meant stopping a bullet, that was fine with young Dr. Winters. He checked the double-barreled shotgun he’d asked for and received from the marshal’s office, leaning it up against the wall by his bed. A sack of shells was on the floor beside the butt of the sawed-off. Doc Winters was quickly adjusting to life west of the Pecos.
He went to bed and was asleep in two minutes.
At four o’clock, all the men of the town were in their assigned positions and waiting for the attack.
“If my addition is correct,” Sam said to Matt, “I figure John Lee’s got thirty-five men, counting himself.”
“Add about ten or fifteen more to that,” Matt replied. “His regular hands will probably come in, too.”
“I completely forgot about them. You’re right. If John Lee fails this day, those men would have a tough time finding work anywhere in Texas. It’s do or die for them, too.”
The office door opened behind them and boots thudded on the boardwalk as Pen Masters joined the brothers. “I heard what you was sayin’, Matt. Yeah, they’s a good fifteen regular hands out on the Broken Lance, all loyal to John Lee. They’re not known gunhands, but they’re rough ol’ boys who ride for the brand. They’ll be comin’ for a fact.”
Matt looked up and down the street. He knew that everybody was up, but as instructed, no lamps were lit. The town appeared to be sleeping in the predawn hours.
Vonny joined them, the old gunfighter standing tall and straight and ready. “We got about an hour ’fore dawn. Say forty-five minutes ’fore they hit us. Time for a biscuit, one more cup of coffee, and a smoke. I’ll do that and get into position. Good luck to you boys and keep your wits about you.” He smiled. “Like we used to say up in the mountains—‘and keep your powder dry.’ ”
He walked off into the darkness.
Bam called from the office. “Coffee’s ready, and the cook at the café sent over some doughnuts. You can’t beat a breakfast like that.”
The men poured coffee and grabbed up the doughnuts, still warm and sprinkled with sugar.
Sam stepped out on the boardwalk and chanted something in a low voice.
“What’s he sayin’?” Bam asked.
“That’s a Cheyenne war chant,” Bodine told him. “He’s telling John Lee to come on, and that it’s a good day for him to die.”
Chapter 24
John Lee and his men struck the town hard, just as dawn was busting the darkness. They had walked their horses in close, then mounted up and charged, several of the raiders carrying lighted torches to fire the town. Those men were the first to die, for the townspeople knew that in these tinder-dry conditions, if one or two of the closely built buildings were to catch fire, the entire town would go.
One house was fired, but the women quickly formed a bucket brigade and caught the flames before they could do anything except very minor damage.
The raiders all wore long dusters and masks over their faces, their hats pulled down low. It was impossible to tell one from another.
One raider charged out of the alley between the general store and the café and rode his horse up onto the boardwalk. Matt blew him out of the saddle and slapped the frightened horse on the rump, sending it racing riderless up the street to the edge of town.
The wounded raider raised up on one elbow and leveled a .45 at Bodine. Standing on the boardwalk on the other side of the alley, Sam finished the man with a .44 slug to the head.
Two raiders came riding straight up the street, guns blazing. Matt, Sam, Bam, and Pen fired as one, and two more horses lost their riders. The hired guns lay motionless in the dirt.
Doc Winters stepped out of his office and took aim with his express gun. A rampaging raider took both barrels in the chest, the charge blowing him out of the saddle and very nearly tearing him in two. Doc Winters reloaded and crouched down behind a horse trough, saying some very uncomplimentary things about crazy ranchers, hoodlums, hired thugs, and the like. He eared back the hammers and waited for another target.
“Stand or deliver, Campbell,” Vonny yelled at one raider who had lost his mask. Campbell turned and Vonny shot him out of the saddle. The hired gun staggered to his boots in the street, and Vonny gave him another taste of law west of the Pecos. Dexter Campbell would never hire his gun out again, unless it was for the devil.
Copper’s horse panicked and threw him. He jumped to his boots and ran into the back of a building, crashing through the back door. A housewife was waiting with a pot of scalding coffee. She threw it in his face, and Copper screamed as his face seemed to catch on fire. He staggered howling out the back just as the woman’s husband ran through the house to the back door, took aim with his .40-90 Sharps rifle, and blew a hole in the man large enough to stick your fist through.
A teenage boy, hiding in the loft of the barn at the livery, grabbed up a pitchfork and threw it at a masked man just below him. The tines caught him in the chest and drove right on through. The raider died without uttering a sound, pinned to the dirt of the street.
Harry Street wheeled his horse at the sight of Matt Bodine standing on the boardwalk, a .44 in each hand. He leveled his .45 at Bodine. He never got to pull the trigger. Josiah drilled him clean between the eyes. The huge man toppled from his saddle into the dust.
Giddings and Tidwell charged up the street and dismounted, intent on looting the general store. The manager of the store met them at the door with a shotgun. His first blast ended any trouble Tidwell might have had with indigestion, and the second blast ruined Giddings’s complexion by taking off part of his face.
“Heathens,” the store manager said, and closed the front door.
Dusty Jordan was shot off his horse by Pen Masters. Bam put a slug into Winslow just as the outlaw put the spurs to his horse. The horse jumped, and Winslow lost his balance, tumbling from the saddle. He landed headfirst in a horse trough, knocking himself out, and drowned.
Matt recognized Kingman and called to him. The man charged Matt with his horse, riding up onto th
e boardwalk. Matt reached up, jerked the gunman from the saddle, and threw him through the big front window of the saloon. Kingman landed on a table, crushing it, and came up cussing. He turned and for one very brief moment, in the dim light, saw Al standing by the bar, a shotgun in his hands. The twin muzzles of the shotgun blossomed in flames, and that was the last thing Kingman ever saw.
Mark Hazard’s horse was shot out from under him, the gunman falling to the ground. In the excitement and noise of the battle, he did not notice that the muzzle of his .45 jammed deep into the ground, filling the barrel. He rose to his knees and took aim at Sam. When he pulled the trigger, the pistol exploded, and Mark lost a hand and part of his face. He lay screaming on the ground, bleeding to death.
The townspeople, once all the outlaws were inside the town, rolled wagons across the road and many of the alleyways, containing the raiders. Dave Land, seeing any escape by horseback blocked, jumped from the saddle and ran into the church. Reverend Willowby met him with a rifle and proceeded to read to him from the Scriptures, punctuated by .44-40 rounds.
Dean Waters tried to jump a wagon. His horse, smarter than the rider, refused, and Dean went flying, butt over elbows. He cleared the wagon and hit the ground on the other side. A woman stepped out of her quarters and conked him on the head with a poker, then hit him again for insurance.
Doc Winters shot Lou Witter in his big butt with buckshot as the raider was lumbering across the street. Witter hit the ground, squalling, his rear end ruined and his pants smoking from the hot buckshot.
Jack Morgan came face to face with Matt Bodine, and Matt laid a .44 across the man’s face twice, breaking his jaw and knocking him out.
Riggs exited his saddle and tried to make a run for the alley. Chookie’s rifle barked, and Riggs fell like a rag doll to lie still in the street. Pate ran into the guns of Barlow and Gilley, the slugs turning him around and around in the street. Wheeler came nose to nose with Parnell, and the Circle S cowboy’s .45’s belched fire and flame. Wheeler sat down on the ground and quietly expired.
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